


I'm in no shape

by BetweenLines55



Series: Hey Jealousy [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A day in the life of English bureaucracy, England goes to work at Whitehall, Gen, Human Names Used, his secretary is a bit worried about him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenLines55/pseuds/BetweenLines55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England is late to work after a long weekend, and his secretary is quite worried about the sudden shift in his personality. </p><p>(First chapter with OFC, second chapter England's POV/Rating higher for second chapter)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jemma Lovelace prided herself on being the best assistant Mr. Kirkland had ever had.

Technically, she didn’t _know_ that she was the best assistant (definitely the preferred term over _secretary_ ) because Mr. Kirkland wasn’t big on the whole _praise_ thing but she liked to assume. After all, she had graduated top of her class at Cambridge and was arguably the best computer novice MI5 had produced in the last thirty years.

What made Jemma so good at her job was that she was known to never miss a detail. She knew her boss’ tea order down to the number of minutes he liked it cooled. She knew that Mr. Kirkland called in “sick” on Monday mornings more than any other day of the week (usually nursing a rather unfortunate hangover so Jemma usually popped in to deliver some Alka-Seltzer and some greasy chips) and that whenever he didn’t pack lunch he went to the sushi bar two streets over from Whitehall.

If a Mister Jones called, take a message. If Mister Williams called, never leave him on hold for longer than ten minutes. If Mister Bonnefoy called, redirect the call immediately and do not disturb for the next half hour.

She liked to think that Nations, once you had their behavioral patterns down (she didn’t have any sort of degree in psychology but did have access to Google and the proffered therapist that came with the secretarial job) were the rather predictable sort.

Jemma had forgotten, of course, that Nations were still people, and people were much more spontaneous than HTML code.

* * *

Mr. Kirkland was not usually late for work, even after a day off. Especially on a Tuesday, after a day off. Monday, Jemma could understand, but definitely not a Tuesday.

When he did arrive, almost half an hour late, he looked incredibly disheveled, like he’d wrestled with a mugger on his way out of the Tube station. His shirt was at least a size too big for him, the pink silk clashing rather badly with the tweed suit. His tie was undone and looped around his neck like a scarf so it wouldn’t fall off.

Despite his frazzled appearance, Mr. Kirkland seemed in good spirits, which was more worrying than anything. Mr. Kirkland was _not_ a morning person (then again, Mr. Kirkland didn’t seem like an anything sort of person, whether eight in the morning or five in the early evening, Mr. Kirkland seemed generally displeased with the general population) and when Jemma had still been shadowing the woman who had held the position of Mr. Kirkland’s secretary previously, she’d gotten a word of advice: Never let it get to nine-hundred hours without getting Mr. Kirkland a cuppa or all hell will break loose.

So, trying to keep some semblance of normalcy, Jemma got up from her desk right outside of Mr. Kirkland’s office and went to make a cup of tea for her boss.

She got down the blue teacup and saucer she normally used on Tuesdays, and poured the hot water over the tea bag. Letting it steep for two minutes and cool for three, Jemma added a splash of milk and stirred with a teaspoon before setting off for Mr. Kirkland’s office.

When she was called to enter, Mr. Kirkland was sitting behind his desk, attaché case lying on his desk in front of him with his undone tie on top. He was on the phone (also unusual for being still so early in the work day) and talking rather animatedly (unusual for any time of day) to the person on the other line.

“Tino, don’t worry, I’ll have Francis there waiting to pick him up at Heathrow an hour before the flight will even come into English airspace. Fine, _British_ airspace.”

He paused to cradle the phone against his shoulder and beckon for Jemma to place his cup and saucer within arm’s reach.

Jemma waited to be dismissed, or see at least if Mr. Kirkland needed her help to get the morning back on the right track, when Mr. Kirkland sighed exasperatedly away from the receiver.

“If Francis can’t make it, I have other people who can go and pick him up. Who? I-I have Jemma, of course, say hello Jemma.”

“Hello Mr. Väinämöinen,” Jemma said as she thought to herself that she should at least be Mr. Kirkland’s favorite employee on the account of the fact that she could even pronounce half his colleagues’ names correctly.

“Yes, Tino. I will do that, if you make sure that Peter packs his wellies. He seems to keep forgetting that it rains quite a bit here. Alright. Thank you, Tino, say hello to Berwald for me. Yes, alright. Yes, _good-bye_.” Mr. Kirkland set down the receiver with a sigh.

“That is always much more work than it should be.” He said. He took a sip of his tea and sighed.

“Will Peter be joining us, sir?” Jemma asked.

“Mm, by Friday afternoon if his flight isn’t delayed. The boy is almost fifty, I’m sure he can fly British Air by himself comfortably.”

“Of course, sir.”

Mr. Kirkland removed his tie and attaché case from his desk and set them aside on the floor. “Jemma, fetch me those new defense contracts with Jones that I’m supposed to look over? I want to get that over with before I tire myself out just thinking about it.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Ta, Jemma.” Mr. Kirkland said and reached for his tea cup with his left hand.

But not before Jemma spotted the gold band newly adorning his finger.

* * *

 

Well that certainly was a new development Jemma had not been expecting. Mr. Kirkland had never struck her as a person to settle down and get married. Of course, it had to be to a fellow Nation and Jemma, who watched the BBC religiously, certainly hadn’t heard of any new developing relations with any other countries (except that more and more of Mr. Kirkland’s time seemed to be taken up with fighting with Mr. Jones about something or other menial, but Mr. Jones seemed even less of the type to settle down, much less marry Mr. Kirkland). Perhaps it was just a civil union then? Between two people, and not two Nations.

If that was the case, Jemma had an ideal about who it could be.

* * *

 

She didn’t want to sound nosy, but if there was a new Mister (Or Missus, but that seemed less likely) she had to be prepared to cater to that spouse.

As she marched into Mr. Kirkland’s office with the defense contracts from America in hand, she casually said, “If you had wanted me to arrange a wedding registry for you, I could’ve done so.”

Mr. Kirkland looked a bit perplexed, but after a second, and a glance at the ring on his hand, he blushed and said, “No, no, it’s not—it’s an old antique I found. I must’ve forgotten to take it off this morning.”

Jemma held her tongue to keep from saying that the ring was probably the least important thing he had forgotten that morning. Instead she said, “Sorry, then, for assuming.”

“It’s quite alright, Jemma. It was a reasonable conclusion to come to. I keep forgetting that you are one of my more observational assistants.”

Jemma’s heart soared at the praise. But Mr. Kirkland wasn’t finished, “And if I do, ah, ever get married, I’ll take you up on that offer, if it still stands of course.”

“Of course, sir!” Jemma nodded.

Mr. Kirkland, who seemed pinker in the face than normal, coughed into his fist, “Well, I’ll just, um, be getting back to these now. You’re dismissed, Ms. Lovelace.”

“If Mr. Bonnefoy phones, shall I direct his call?”

Jemma giggled quietly to herself as Mr. Kirkland spluttered behind her. Closing the door with a soft click, she went to go file the day’s paperwork, Tuesday back on schedule.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> told you there would be a second chapter. 
> 
> fruk goodness, Arthur comes home after a long day.

When he walked the front door, Arthur was met by a pair of warm arms and the smell of food. Since they both had taken Monday off, Tuesday had become an honorary Monday, and Mondays meant Italian take out.

Francis, who had gotten home from the French embassy slightly earlier than Arthur, had picked up take out boxes full of pasta and bread, and a bottle of red wine for them to share. He’d changed out of his work clothes and still managed to look dashing wearing the only pair of sweatpants he owned. The thin material of the v-neck t-shirt he was wearing drew attention to his broad shoulders and the muscles of his chest, back and arms. He smelled good too, bugger him.

Arthur felt dead on his feet. He let Francis lead him from the front door to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

“Long day?” Francis asked, perching himself delicately next to Arthur on the bed. Arthur responded by rolling over onto his stomach and groaning. “Had a rough start,” Arthur mumbled into the duvet, “Didn’t help that I was late.”

Francis laughed, “You certainly weren’t complaining this morning, _cher_.”

“Honestly, I’m really not complaining now. Gave me something to look forward to as I went over defense contracts all day.” He groaned again as he rolled over and sat up. His back hurt and his head kind of ached but that could also be from teetering blood sugar. Arthur rolled his shoulders, hearing them pop, before starting to undress.

“Did anyone comment on your unusual attire today?” Francis said, still watching him from the bed. Arthur grumbled a noncommittal answer before rummaging around the chest of drawers for the particular heather-grey shirt he was looking for and a pair of track-suit bottoms.

Feeling somewhat better after changing, Arthur curled back up against Francis on the bed, lying down so that their calves and feet still hung over the end of the bed. Francis’ hair spilled around his shoulders, pooling like golden silk.

 _One perk_ , Arthur thought to himself, _of whatever this is, is that I can touch him however I please, whenever I like._

The Frenchman’s hair was just as soft as it looked, and Arthur’s heart thumped a hard tattoo in his chest as Francis sighed and leaned into Arthur’s touch.

“I missed you today,” Francis said quietly into Arthur’s forehead before moving the slightest bit to be able to kiss the skin there. “I was on the phone with _Allemande_ for two and a half hours today and the only thing that kept me going was all of the sinful things I was going to do to you when I got home.”

“Which include?”

“I’m so glad you asked.” Francis said, and Arthur quickly found himself on his back with his middle straddled by the other. He was kissed thoroughly, breathlessly, by Francis as the Frenchman ran his knuckles over the pulse points in Arthur’s wrists up to his hands to uncurl and clasp the Briton’s hands in his own.

Abruptly, Francis pulled away.

Arthur would be the last to admit it, but he found himself trailing after Francis’ lips, and making the slightest sound of disproval when Francis stopped.

“Why’d you stop?” Arthur asked, a little bit more than miffed by the sudden interruption. However, instead of doing the reasonable thing and answering him, Francis’ eyes were trained on Arthur’s hands, still pinned above his head on the bed.

“You didn’t take it off.”

“What?”

“The ring, Arthur, you didn’t take it off. I thought you would have by now.” Francis said, settling his weight more firmly on Arthur’s middle and releasing Arthur’s wrists.

“I forgot to take it off this morning, I guess. Jemma—,”

“Your secretary?”

“Yes, she asked me about it. Thought I had gotten married. Offered to do my wedding registry.” Arthur said. Francis gave an undignified snort of a laugh that had Arthur chuckling too. With some difficulty of thousand-year-old bones, Arthur sat up and steadied Francis in his lap.

“Would you, if you could?”

“What?” Arthur asked. Arthur brought Francis a bit closer to kiss the underside of his jaw, where he had left marks earlier that morning, already healed and gone without a trace.

“Marry me?” Francis said all in one breath like he was afraid that if he said it too confidently he wouldn’t be able to take it back.

Arthur thought for a moment, stilling his kisses and just pressing his face into the warmth of Francis’ neck. This close, he could smell the remnants of the day’s cologne and the soft lavender scent of his shampoo. Francis’ arms tightened around Arthur’s shoulders in encouragement of an answer.

“Yeah,” Arthur said finally, “Yeah, I would. But I doubt we’d get the same tax benefits.”

Francis did that funny snort of a laugh again. “I think…I think that would be nice.” He chuckled a bit, “Now if either one of us had brought up the idea even fifty years ago…”

“I would’ve tossed you into the Thames.”

“And you, into the Seine.” There was a moment of companionable silence between them.

Finally, Francis let go of Arthur and stood up. “Dinner?”

At the thought of food, Arthur’s stomach made a growling noise.

“Sounds lovely.” Arthur said, which made Francis smile.

“You know,” Francis said, sometime later, as they were relaxing on the couch after dinner, each with a glass of wine in hand, “We’ll have to tell the boys.”

“You mean the ones we had out of wedlock?”

Francis laughed and pressed a kiss into the messy locks of his lover? Fiancé?

“Yes, _cher_. Those ones.”


End file.
